


Un Café Noir

by girlofthearts



Series: Accidentally hitting an s/o [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Coffee Shops, Dammit Francis, Drama, Drama & Romance, Dramatic rain is dramatic, Emotional Infidelity, France Being a Jerk (Hetalia), Francis Bonnefoy - Freeform, Reader-Insert, Whump, commitment issues, ish?, reader - Freeform, this is why you need to communicate in relationships, you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5919664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlofthearts/pseuds/girlofthearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Communication is the backbone to healthy relationships. Not communicating means that shit escalates quickly, as Francis is about to find out. Starts out in a coffee shop on a rainy day, all goes downhill from there. Who exactly is that you're touching?</p><p>Inspired by CheshireBandit's accidentally hitting an s/o series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Un Café Noir

The bell rang above the door for the fourth time in five minutes. Accommodating the crush of people attempting to get their midday caffeine fix.  Brrip-Brrring .  Brrip-Brrring-Brrip-Brrring.

But you hardly noticed the presence of that particular irritant. Your eyes were riveted on the scene unfolding barely a stone’s throw away from you.

His touch slid against the other woman’s skin, tracing a path down her wrist.  The tilt of his sensuous lips was an invitation. Fingers carelessly flirting and entwining with  hers .

This was not an uncommon thing to see between young lovers. 

Except that by your last count, he was  your  lover. Not hers. 

Your heart paused. An abrupt hurt, like the prick and burn of a needle in your very core.

Nails gouged the dark-lacquered surface of the table. The mirror finish reflected your face, dazed and stricken with pain.

The tightness within your chest forced a startled inhale. A blink. Two, to reorient yourself.

You forced your hands to relax their rigid grip. The coffee and pastries for two, tucked away in their little pastel bag, seemed to mock you now.

You wanted to walk over to his sunny visage and shake him. The brunette woman laughed at something he had said, and your jealousy felt like it was crawling out of you like a living thing. Certainly, you  weren’t the only one who felt that way. Admiring and envious eyes drank in the genuinely beautiful couple; half-dazzled by the  Vogue  perfect  picture [a]  they made. 

A chill seemed to seep into you; an artificial calm taking charge. Uninterested in torturing yourself further, you quietly repacked the few things scattered across the tabletop, and very deliberately re-buttoned your coat.

The coffee went down like a shot.

A scrape of the chair, and your flats slapping against the tiled floor. The buzz of the other patrons receded in your awareness, barely even white noise.

A short foot away from Francis’s table, and his gaze casually drifted away from his tablemate’s. To yours.

His face paled to bridal white. Vindictive satisfaction flared within you as you dropped the little bag of pastries on the table.

“Your favorite, dearest.”

“Mon amour-” His breathy plea fell away as you melted into the stream of patrons headed into the drizzle. The wild crash of a chair echoed behind you as you pushed through the heavy doors.

You ran into the crowd.

\---

He is sure he is drowning. All too sure, as he waits in the silent apartment, swaddled as it is in cloudy gloom.

‘She has left him,  she is gone , not coming back.’

The litany is unceasing. The words tumble over his tongue, half voiced as he paces. A restless specter flitting from wall to wall, with frantic fingers winding in his hair and nicotine pressed to his lips.

Her phone went straight to voicemail with every call. None of her friends have heard from her, and unwilling to divulge any additional information, he spun a tale of some silly fight and made them promise to send word of her well-being.

There was a certain, bitter irony, he couldn’t help but appreciate, laced through the situation. The ending he forsaw, he prophesized and feared, brought on by his own rebellious actions. A self-fulfilling mess.

Nothing left to do but wait, and ruminate.

A strangled gasp; he tore at his hair once more.

\---

The darkly saturated concrete steps pressed wetly against the bare skin of your legs. You didn’t know what would wait for you in the apartment upstairs, and frankly didn’t care. 

The rainfall soothed your shattered nerves. Hair plastered against your skin, umbrella tucked away in your bag.

You were wishing away your disappointment, wet heat from your eyes mingling with the chalky precipitation that kissed your cheeks. 

A few strange looks were cast your way by curious neighbors. One or two genuine expressions of concern, and one very kind offer from an elderly couple that lived a floor below you.

This was definitely not the best place to give free reign to your self-pity; there were far too many eyes witness to your shaming behavior, curled on the front steps like an urchin. 

But your legs had guided you back home after a ragged lap around the block. And it may as well be here, right?  You weren’t inclined to drown your sorrows at the local dive, anyhow. Not yet.

But.

You longed for a cigarette just then. The inclination to have something in your hands, the temptation for that chemical blast to blunt the emotional edges, a pressing one. 

That chill had now settled into every crevice of you. Roughly your hand dragged across your face, mollifying the building pressure behind your eyes.

The hollow sensation within you waged war with your very reasonable disbelief, your frustration and hurt.

It felt like melodrama to indulge yourself this way. Absolutely pathetic. But the challenge of taming the relentless swirl of your thoughts was proving to be beyond your power just then.

It was funny, though, the disappointment was what you kept coming back to.  For the majority of your relationship, Francis had immersed you in his devotion. Given you nothing but all of his love and undivided attention.

“And here we are.” You sighed.

\--- [b]

Your keys missed the keyhole on the first try, the lingering cold that numbed your fingers was not yet eradicated by the heat being pumped through the hallway.

A thump and a sudden scrabble across the floor. The door tore open, with your hand still suspended above the lock. .

Francis’s chest heaved, eyes drinking you in. Your momentary surprise was overcome as one of his hands reached out to touch you. You flinched away.

His eyes fell closed as he sagged against the doorframe, “You’re back.”

You licked your chapped lips, “I need a towel.” A damp splotched formed a halo on the carpet beneath you and the bag that lay at your feet. 

As soon as the door closed, he turned on you.

 “Where were  you ? Why did you not answer your phone?” Not even a minute into the conversation, and his hands were moving with more energy than an orchestra conductor’s. Not a good sign in the least.

“My phone battery was dead. I meant to charge it earlier, but didn’t get a chance.” The last bit was pointed, as you had meant to charge it at the cafe. He bypassed your hint entirely. 

“You can be so careless, I swear to heaven. Do you have any idea of how worried I was?”

He dogged your steps all the way to the kitchen, where you intended to deposit your drenched outerwear, and begin mopping yourself up. The last thing you needed on top of all of this rigmarole was an illness. 

“Francis. I was upset, I needed to clear my head. Okay? I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Non, you were not. I can’t imagine what you thought you were doing, running off into the rain like, like some madwoman.”

You rolled your eyes. A grimace graced your lips. “And I can’t imagine what possessed you to start pawing at that poor soul from the coffee shop, so we’re certainly even.” 

Francis gripped the sides of one of the kitchen chairs, as you rifled for a towel. It creaked under the force of his grip, a startled kind of squeak from the joints. A hot, red flush began to suffuse across his face. His voice was tight. 

“I did nothing of the sort.”

An incredulous laugh escaped you. “Right. Because I didn’t see you with my own two eyes, or anything.”

“And exactly how long were you standing there, watching our conversation, ma colombe? Looking for something in particular?”

        A sigh, a slammed drawer. “Francis, please. Just-”

        “ Mais non!  You did not trust me enough to believe that I was having a honest conversation with, with-”

        “A very pretty brunette. That you were holding hands with. What the hell was I supposed to think?” 

        “Again with this petty nonsense. I had thought better of you.”

And with that, you shook your head. The churning in your gut notwithstanding, this conversation was clearly going nowhere if he couldn’t even admit to wrongdoing. That left you with some rather uncomfortable impressions about the future of this relationship, but that was a thought hastily tucked away. 

“I’m not doing this with you.” You stated, headed to a warm shower and a dry change of clothes. You rubbed reluctantly at the mascara tracks that were surely tracing down your cheeks. Between one blink and the next, Francis had placed himself between you and the hall. You stopped short.

“What the hell? Move, Francis. I’m freezing.”

“We are not done.” His finger stabbed the air between the two of you. 

“Oh, no. We are definitely done.” Dripping tendrils of hair swung as you shook your head, “I refuse to have a serious conversation when you’re acting like this.”

        Batting the accusing hand aside, you twisted around him towards the hall. 

At this rate, you weren’t even sure you’d be able to make it through a shower; sorely tempted to fall head first into your cozy bed and pray this would all be gone in the morning.

“You can not just run away from me!” He exclaimed. A sudden, tight grip on your shoulder threw you off balance, feet losing traction on the wet floor. A dull rush sounded in your ears as you hit the ground, outstretched arms shielding your face. 

Uncomprehending silence reigned as you struggled to draw a stuttered breath. 

A half-hysterical exclamation rent the stillness, his gentle hands ever-so-carefully helping you sit up, pulling you into him.

“Merde merde merde merde merde”   Came the rasping litany of french. 

“Fuck it all to hell.” You wheezed at last and weakly shoved away from his chest, “Son of a bitch.” 

“ Je suis  désolé.”  His arms trembled around you,  “Je vous prie de bien vouloir m'excuser.”

“...Francis.” Drained, you futilely struggled against the intimate embrace, “You just- let me go. Let me go!”

“Please. I am so sorry. Please.” Hoarsely, he begged.“Please, don’t go.”

Exhausted and emotionally spent, helpless tears flooded your eyes once more. “Damn it Francis.”  


End file.
